


what can you see from your window? (i can't see anything from mine)

by hotmess_ex_press



Category: VIXX
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, no au, sorry - Freeform, title is taken from the song "Dress Blues", um this is pretty sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmess_ex_press/pseuds/hotmess_ex_press
Summary: "There's nothing," Hongbin's voice rasps and dies away, so faint Hakyeon can barely catch the words before they wisp into nothingness, collecting like spiderwebs in the silent corners of the universe. "There's nothing you can do."There'severythingthey could do. But Hongbin won't allow it.--or--Hongbin lies and lies, but it never seems to get him anywhere.





	what can you see from your window? (i can't see anything from mine)

Hongbin's entire life is built on lies.

His voice? Barely pretty enough to be anything. An accessory in songs, something exotic, like a colorful painting in a room of black and white, or, more apt, a simple silver band adorning a hand smothered in bigger, bolder, more intricate rings he could never compete with. His personality? When is anyone's true self apparent under the layers of media influence and cruel expectations, especially an idol's, when his company and his fans and all the other people he _belongs_ to have so many ideas of who he is and how he feels, ideas he has to live up to?

He is the visual. But what is beauty? _Him_? Or the makeup caked on his face, the false shadows and irregular angles and colors that shouldn't _be_? Even the thing that defines him, the title he clings to with both hands and all of his soul, is a fable.

Hongbin is good at what he does. ( _Acting. Everyday. 24/7._ Suppressing the dreams he craves to cradle and cherish and building up the perfect part of himself until it's all anyone can see. _Pretending_.)

 

But sometimes when he lies, he can't keep the hurt out of his eyes.

 

His phone and everything it hides, masquerading behind a pristine white cover and unreachable promises, is clutched in one hand, quickly-cooling cup of coffee grasped in the other. Comments about him spread down and down as he scrolls through the contents, tiny frown tugging on his lips.

_How does this happen?_

Each word he reads stings a little less and solidifies everything he believes about himself a little more. Ugly voice, ugly smile, ugly heart. A member due to luck and nice cheekbones, nothing else. Hateful person to the very core.

It's nothing he hasn't heard before. It's nothing he hasn't read and reread obsessively under the forgiving blanket of night, nothing he hasn't told himself every minute of every day. He can't fool everyone, after all. He can't reassure himself of his skills and his talent and the love that was supposed to save him, because he simply isn't blind enough to trust that.

Hakyeon's name catches his eye and his breath catches in his throat.

The coffee is haphazardly shoved into the nearest cupholder, and Hongbin's hand subconsciously trails up to his neck, fingernails digging into his skin in a way that would be painful if not for the invisible knife twisting itself into his chest.

(It's nothing. Nothing he hasn't known for years, nothing he doesn't try to hammer into his mind like a sticky song. It's nothing. _Nothing_. So why does it hurt so much?)

Just another person ranting about what an asshole Hongbin is, so spiteful and jealous, especially towards their leader.

How much he _hates_ Hakyeon.

 _Hate_ is a word that bounces around his head, trying to find a place to call home, before shattering into a million bloodred fractals, becoming nothing but tainting every thought he owns in its ugly, persistent shade. _Hate_ is exactly what Hongbin has become, loathing everything and everyone, but, most importantly, himself.

The message is accompanied by a video clip, just a few seconds long. Guilt and bile rise up in his throat, but both are pushed down to prick at and roil in his stomach. He doesn't need the volume up to know it's another instance where he's teasing, making fun of, insulting Hakyeon's skin. Another moment Hakyeon laughs and shrugs away, hurt and humiliation flickering behind his eyes, there and gone in a blink. Almost too fleeting to identify, but glaringly obvious once he does.

Hakyeon's sunshine-glorious, deliciously warm, utterly _perfect_ skin.

Hongbin doesn't know how long he stares at the screen, but it's enough time for it to turn grey, then black, and the van to roll to a slow stop and empty.

It's late, and the sky is dark, _so dark_ , and starless.

Hakyeon pokes his head in and Hongbin is briefly reminded of what all the fans say, about how much he cares about all the members, even him. How he would pluck every planet from the heavens, then tame each one, just for them. Hongbin feels sick.

"You comin', Binnie?" he asks, voice like silk and honey and molten gold. He nods silently, swallowing. (His throat feels like sandpaper, nose aching, and he's either getting sick _again_ or about to cry.)

(He's not sure which sounds worse, because they're both hell on earth.)

Hakyeon offers a hand as Hongbin awkwardly clambers onto the sidewalk, but he flinches away, phone slipping to the concrete.

A telltale _crack_ sounds into the night. Hakyeon bends to pick it up, and hands it to the younger.

Hongbin hopes the damn thing is dead.

No such luck. Just cracked, Hongbin dreads to admit, inspecting the flimsy device far longer than necessary as Hakyeon's calculating gaze drills holes through him. The flickering streetlight paints Hakyeon in otherworldly bronze and copper.

"Hongbin," he says, putting a force behind the words Hongbin dares not disobey. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, hyung," he whispers. "I'm fine."

He stares down at his old sneakers, noticing how the soles are slowly peeling away, and wills himself not to throw himself into Hakyeon's arms and kiss him until the sun rises, or drop to his knees and beg for the forgiveness he'll never deserve.

He does neither. He holds his breath until Hakyeon walks away with a disappointed sigh, then slinks into the dorm and his bed, tears burning around his edges and anger, at himself, at the world, at the stars that are missing from the velvety sky tonight, weighing hot and heavy in his lungs.

 

Sometimes when Hongbin lies, he can't keep the hope out of his eyes.

 

Hongbin isn't quite sure how the world _love_ had leeched into and slowly taken over their conversation, but he thinks the soju with an unusually high alcohol concentration Wonshik had gotten his hands on and the fact Jaehwan and Hyuk are both disgustingly sentimental drunks might have had something to do with it.

(He doesn't trust himself to drink. If he lets himself go, if every word he never said and action he never took just tumbled out in a disaster of tears and anger and all those things he shouldn't be feeling, he could never forgive himself. His skin crawls imagining the looks of pity, the judgmental glares. Because, even if he doesn't have their friendship, or their admiration, or their love, he has his member's respect. And he can't lose that.)

All he wants is to be asleep already.

The others have knit themselves into a pile of long legs and potent admiration, smushed together on the rug. Hongbin curls up in the armchair in the corner, his arms circling around his waist, creating as much counterfeit warmth as he can manage. Not for the first time, he feels lonely, alienated, abandoned in a time meant for bonding.

It's ridiculous. He's brought this upon himself.

He hears them giggling and gushing about their first loves, their first heartbreaks, everything Hongbin is still suspended in the middle of. He sees them, a mass of limbs and affection, but he focuses on his hands instead, clasped together so tightly he can't feel his own trembling fingers. _Breathe_ , he has to remind himself. _Breathe._

That's all he can do. That's all he can ever do.

"Hongbinnie," Jaehwan exclaims, pouting up at him sloppily. His eyes are drowsy, half-lidded, but he is as awake as anything. "What about you? Loves? Heartaches?"

It's almost nauseating for Hongbin to hear words so pure and rare spoken in such an unironic manner. He grins, though the effort makes his cheeks ache. He's cold.

"My heart is whole," he proclaims, and shivers, so subtly even he can hardly notice.

He can't explain the sudden yearning, the burst of bittersweet hope. All he knows is it doesn't belong inside of him.

Cooes are aimed at him, _our innocent Hongbinnie, cutie, sweetie_. Sickening. He doesn't want the sugar-sweet names, he's never matched up with them. They're for angels, for babies. Not miserable men with no color and even fewer smiles to make up for it.

The hope suddenly has a meaning to it, it crashes over him like a powerful wave, an abrupt clap of thunder.

He _wants_ to believe it. He wants to be whole again, wants a heart ready for adventure and romance and excitement. Maybe if he repeats it, and even halfway believes it, it will come true. He needs someone to say something, to call his bluff, to look past the sunny surface into the swirling storm within.

Once, just once, he wants to be seen.

He isn't. The group goes back to their warm world of perfection and luck, leaving him far, far behind, trapped in his own lingering darkness.

It takes no effort whatsoever for him to slip away undetected. Hongbin stands, parts his lips as if to say something, then thinks better of it, and walks away, sinking into his bed without a sound.

 

Sometimes the anger just won't stay out when he lies.

 

"Hongbin," Taekwoon's soft voice slices through the silence. Hongbin starts, shoves his mangled phone under his pillow, though he knows the vocalist has already seen it. A pinched look crosses over Taekwoon's face, but he doesn't point it out, for which Hongbin is grateful. He never does, just regards Hongbin with blank eyes until the next big problem overshadows his concern for the younger, and Hongbin can breathe freely once again. "Come out. We're getting into pairs for the show tomorrow."

Dread settles in Hongbin's veins like skittering frost, coating his insides in an icy concoction of fear and anticipation. "Can't you pick without me?"

Maybe it's the indifference or maybe it's the quality Hongbin can't quite name lurking in Taekwoon's tone and expression, but he resignedly follows when his elder says lowly, "Hakyeon will throw a fit."

Hongbin wishes he was somewhere else. Some fantasy land that exists only on the tips of artists' paintbrushes, where he wouldn't ever have to bite his tongue until it bleeds and lock up his tears like dirty little half secrets. He wishes and wishes, but it does nothing. He always wakes up in the same bed, same room, same body. He never drifts away in his dreams, clinging on to the murky fragments until he can finally follow them up to a place where he has what it takes. After all, who is there to listen to him, to his selfish desires?

He stares at the off-white wall across from him, aware of the steady rhythm the clock lays out and the way his head seems to want to fall forward from exhaustion.

These nights have been bad for sleeping. Hot and staticy, full of buzzing and indignant traffic. It gets the cooler the wider he opens the window, but louder as well. Impossible.

"Hongbin, you'll be fine with Hakyeon, right?" Hyuk asks, question gliding past Hongbin like music from a passing car, registering just enough for him to recognize sound, but much too short-lived to mold into a melody.

Wonshik swoops in before Hongbin has the chance to ask Hyuk to repeat himself. "That's ridiculous. Binnie hates Hakyeon. He'll be a sulky spoilsport the whole time."

There's laughter behind his jibe, fondness, even, but there's _that word_ again.

Fuck, it's everywhere.

_Hate. Hate. hatehatehatehatehate._

Before the word's full impact even hits him, he can feel flames clawing their way up his throat. Jaehwan and Hyuk's laughter fuel it, and it _hurts_. Everything hurts, everything is splashed in blood and shadows and gore. He scowls at his lap, pinches his own thigh just to keep himself from lashing out.

His hands are so shaky. It's pitiful.

"Besides, even the fans don't like seeing them together," he continues, and maybe that's Taekwoon tugging Wonshik's sweatshirt in a nonverbal warning, maybe Jaehwan has noticed someone else's feelings _for once in his life_ and is prying Hongbin's hands away from his legs, but it doesn't matter.

(It should be nothing. The words shouldn't have more effect in real life than they do over a splintered screen, but they _do_.)

Hongbin stands, chair clattering to the floor behind him, and leans towards Wonshik, even though he knows the rapper will be twice as quick to anger. But he doesn't care, fury clouding his vision and clenching his heart. "Shut the fuck up. Just shut the _fuck_ up."

He's right, he called it when he figured Wonshik would retaliate, and he seems to tower over Hongbin with his infuriating smirk and cold glare. "Hongbin, you're either blind or even more stupid than we thought you were if you haven't seen what they say about you."

Hongbin falters at the sharpness of Wonshik's words. "Yeah? And you must be an asshole to say that shit in front of Hakyeon."

Wonshik's eyes glitter with a victorious light as he straightens up, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Why don't _you_ say it then? You can't deny it, can you? You hate him. So man up and say it out loud."

Even the air is still. Five pairs of eyes watch him, wary, nervous, expectant. Nothing Hongbin can do could ever fix this, he can't recreate himself into anything but the monster he's been painted as. So he does the only thing he can, hisses through clenched teeth the very sentence that will detach him even further from everything that used to matter.

"I hate every person in this whole _damn_ room."

He doesn't bother to stick around for whatever drama will unfold after his outburst. He sweeps out of the dorm and into the crowded streets, despising no one but himself.

(N joins Leo and Ken for the show the next day, reason being Hongbin's cold that prevents him from leaving home.)

(The opposite is true. Hongbin hasn't even come home.)

 

Sometimes Hongbin can't drive out the doubt when he lies.

 

He's been spending as little time with the other members as possible, even as he sees them, one by one, forgive and try to reach out to him. Practice and schedules are unavoidable, but he comes in while the others are sleeping, hurries out before they're awake.

(If he's being honest, not much changes. It's always been them, and him, nothing more, nothing less.)

He sleeps even less, if that's possible, but the stylist noonas simply cover up the dark circles with even more pasty goop and compliment how thin he's gotten. Their manager hasn't talked to him.

The night air is cool and sweet, wind running chilly daggers over his bare skin. City lights sprawl out in every direction for eternity. Hongbin wants to scoop them up like glittering fairies to hold in the palm of his hand. Maybe they could fly him away.

The wall he is walking on is parallel to another. Hongbin leaps. One hand stretches above him, almost high enough to graze the heavens, trying to catch a star. He misjudges.

He crashes to the merciless pavement, smarting and starless.

He slumps onto his back, facing the slender crescent of moon still stuck in the sky, and laughs as the absurdity of _everything_ makes itself apparent. It's bizarre, the way he runs and lies, laughable how he stays, drowning in his own misery, when nothing holds him here.

When he stands, the world cackles and tilts, and he finds himself on the ground yet again, cheek pressing hard into the dirty surface.

Years and years ago, so far back Hongbin feels dizzy just trying to recall, his grandmother had taught him how to waltz. Left foot forward, two travelling steps, right foot back, step, step. Repeat, until the music fades and the lights die out and the world dissolves into nothing. One hand on her waist, one hand clasping hers, moving in graceful circles, turning around and around like twin planets moving in tandem.

He rises to unsteady feet and finds he can dance faster than the pain can keep up with, revolving around himself.

(He would much rather like being held.)

The glow of a thousand fairies illuminates the world, and Hongbin waltzes all the way to the dorm. His head spins and his arms ache from the absence of someone to treasure. The door is cool and smooth, slick under his sweaty hands, and he leans against it, just breathing.

With a faint _click_ , Hongbin twists the key in the lock, pushing his way into the dorm. Yellow-gold light spills from the kitchen, casting long shadows.

Hongbin freezes. The sky outside holds darkness, the cotton-candy rays of sun still hours from the horizon. He takes tentative steps forward, leg crying out in agony. He ignores it.

Hakyeon is standing near the coffee machine, watching his mug slowly fill. An oversized shirt and baggy shorts hang loose on his bony frame, almost skeletal in the eerie glare unique to the hours not quite night and not quite morning. Hongbin doesn't have to look at the clock to know they should both be in bed. Their eyes meet, and he can't find it in himself to move away. Simply stares back as Hakyeon's gaze rakes over his face, his body, expression shifting from worry to realization. _He's beautiful_ , Hongbin tries not to think, but ultimately fails as Hakyeon looks him fully in the eye, lips parted.

"What happened?" Hakyeon's voice is hushed, but full of remorse.

_What does he have to regret?_

"Oh," Hongbin responds, too late. Always too late, cursed like spring rain to appear the very moment he isn't needed anymore. "I fell."

He reaches up to rub some of the dirt off his face, but recoils when he feels something wet and warm.

 _It's tears_ , he realizes. _I'm crying._

Hakyeon steps closer, and it's _too close_ , the room is tightening around them and there's too much empty space in this world anyway so _why_ does he have to be here of all places, _here_ , in Hongbin's space and invading his mind until he is the only thought left, _here_ , almost close enough to kiss but too far away to touch and just infuriatingly, tortuously _stunning_?

There's a hand, warm, feather-light, hovering just above his cheek, and Hongbin shudders, eyes snapping shut. For half a moment, he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , there's a tiny sliver of hope, for him to be happy and in love, or even just _okay_ , but then he opens his eyes and all he can see is Hakyeon, too glorious, too ethereal, too _good_ to even look at Hongbin.

He feels raw, stumbles back until the wall is behind him and covers his face with his hands, ashamed to be weak, ashamed to _be_.

The bruises will disappear. The scratches will scab over and heal, the stains will wash out. But he will always, always be broken.

"Hongbin," Hakyeon begs, sounding close to tears himself, which is unthinkable. He's _him_ , and he's too angelic to ever need to cry. "We care. We do. So let us help. _Please_."

"There's nothing," Hongbin's voice rasps and dies away, so faint Hakyeon can barely catch it before it wisps into nothingness, collecting like spiderwebs in the silent corners of the universe. "There's nothing you can do."

There's _everything_ they could do. But Hongbin won't allow it.

Hakyeon moves forward again, arms open and inviting.

Hongbin can't take it. He deserves none of this, none of the love Hakyeon is so willing to offer. He darts away, panic pushing and pulling him in every direction. At the door to his room, he turns, looks back. He's sobbing now, unable to breathe properly, air wavering and twinkling in and out of existence. His vision blurs hopelessly, but he can still see Hakyeon, like a rainbow, fragile and wistful against a backdrop of steely grey.

"I'm sorry," he cries. "I'm so, so sorry."

 

Sometimes when Hongbin lies, he just can't keep the tears out of his eyes.

 

It's too still. Too silent.

Hongbin hates it, the way his grief seems to bounce right back at him, echoing off the spotless tile and cruel mirror like shards of sunlight flashing from the surface of a shimmering lake. Even the air is merciless, like millions of icy needles stabbing into every inch of his exposed chest and back, his arms and face.

He's so sore.

He had practiced until the others were long gone, home with their steaming bowls of food and playful conversation, until he was sure they were all asleep in their cozy beds, sweet dreams minutes away, and then some. He had danced so hard and so long his legs had disappeared from under him and he had almost gotten sick, lying there on the hardwood floors sticky with his sweat.

It isn't enough. He isn't and will never be enough.

His skin burns wherever his tears touch. Hongbin's knuckles clench around the edges of the smooth porcelain sink, and he tips his head back in a silent scream that tears through every fiber of his being.

He's an idiot. For thinking he could make it, for wishing and hoping when he shouldn't. For even daring to believe he could be content.

Hakyeon's smile fills his mind yet again.

If he tries, really tries, he can almost imagine Hakyeon's solid arms around him, the warmth, the strength. He can almost smell Hakyeon's cloying amber perfume, can almost taste the airy, sweet comforts he's certain Hakyeon would whisper to him. The way Hakyeon's lips would feel on his, satiny as his tantalizing dancing.

"No," Hongbin gasps, eyes flying open. "I hate him."

His shoulders heave with the effort it takes not to make a sound, lungs straining for oxygen. In the mirror, he meets his own eyes. The words are flat, unconvincing. Sharp pain shoots through his head, and he feels ghost-like, translucent and wavering, trapped between this life and the next.

"I really do," he tries again, voice ragged and shaky. "I _hate_ him."

Hongbin lies, and even his own reflection doesn't believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved and cherished forever


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